Up For Rent
by clarabella wandering
Summary: "They say the 221b Baker Street flat is up for rent, now."


Howdy! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, ever, so you can imagine my excitement. This fic was inspired by detectivedeathfrisbee who is on Instagram. If you want to follow my Instagram, it is cityofourfandoms.

I apologize in advance for any spelling errors, as this is being typed up on my little cell phone. Enjoy. I do not own thing.

. . .

_**Up For Rent.**_

By Everyone's a Mortal.

. . .

People stood on their tiptoes, not wanting to get their dress shoes dirty. It disgusted him, how people could care more about stupid old shoes than the person they were supposed to be honoring.

But he didn't say so. No, for the first time in a while, Sherlock Holmes held his tongue.

If the man in the box had been alive, he would have laughed and said some sheepish comment like, "Never thought I'd live to see the day Sherlock Holmes shut up."

He never did live to see the day.

Mary was crying, holding her stomach. She stood next to Sherlock, and the tall man wondered how he was going to take care of her. Lord knows he can't raise children for the life of him.

Lestrade pokes him on the shoulder, ruining Sherlock's thoughts. "Oi," he says. "It's, ah, time."

Sherlock raises a brow, "oh, shut up, Lestrade. Your sympathy isn't wanted." Without awaiting a response, he sets off at a brisk pace, looking set and sure.

But as most of us learn with him, things are not always as they seem.

Before Sherlock opens his mouth, he takes a breath and closes his eyes. He can see it all. The gun. The table.

The choice.

It's why Watson is there, in the ground, all the colour sucked out of him, and why Sherlock is standing in front of all those people. Watson. The _better man._

Sherlock clears his throat. "I spoke once, for John, at a happier moment in time. He was smiling, mildy embarrassed that his best friend was a sociopath afraid of speaking in front of many people." There are some scattered laughs. Sherlock's fists tighten. "I know some of us would do anything to go back there, to that part of time and... and space."

Sherlock glances at Mary. She nods at him.

"But unfortunately, science hasn't come that far yet and I don't know where the hell I'm going with this speech, so you should probably stop standing tiptoe because by now you should know better; the grass just wants attention." People give the great detective strange glances. He ignores them. "The first time I met John, I asked him where he'd gotten shot; Iraq or Afghanistan. I'd told him his limp was not really a limp and John Watson... he called what I did amazing.

"Now because of me he's dead and yes, I'm sorry. We can't go back. Can't say all the things we've wanted to say -and trust me, I've got quite a list- so let's just move on. I already have. I'm going to his favorite restaurant after this."

Gasps fill the open air, and Sherlock's chest tightens but what can he do?

"People," he mumbles, and no one sees his hands shaking. "We are gathered here today because _somebody," _ Sherlock gives a sharp glare to the closed coffin (as if somehow the body inside would wake up and say hey, it's not my fault that guy shot me.), "Couldn't stay alive." Sherlock finishes.

"Funerals are for the living, not for the gone. We're gathered here today, blood pumping through our silly, corrupted lungs, and he's gone." Sherlock says.

He walks away, body holding an arrogant, indifferent stance.

Only one person in the whole world would be able to tell his heart wasn't in it.

Too bad that person wasn't in the world, anymore.

. . .

People leave after faux goodbyes and words of so-called wisdom for Mary.

Mrs Hudson drives the widow home and soon Sherlock is the only one left.

The grave has no grass, no headstone, nothing for anyone to know that John Watson is buried down there.

"Damn you." Sherlock murmurs. Then, louder, "damn you." He kicks the dirt. "DAMN YOU."

Sherlock falls down next to the grassless grave. He takes something that looks like a metal stick but, when he extends it, it becomes clear it's a cane.

Holmes places it at the head of the grave. "Just till the good stuff comes in," he whispers. Then he puts his head in his hands and cries.

Maybe, if John had still been alive, he would have said something like, "And here I thought you were strong."

But he's not alive and so Sherlock just cries.

. . .

When Lestrade finds him, he doesn't exactly know what to do. No one's ever really seen the detective cry before.

So, he doesn't do anything and afterwards, Sherlock thinks that perhaps that man is more clever than he lets on. Lestrade waits for Sherlock.

And it's a bloody long wait, too.

But after Sherlock is quiet and done with the shock of it all -he never quite processed it- he kneels at the foot of his best friends -his only friends- grave.

"Do one last thing for me," he says, and sniffles. "One last amazing, bloody miracle, just for me."

His breathing comes quicker. "Please don't be dead." And the silent after thought; I stayed alive just for you. Please do the same.

Years pass by.

They say the 221b Baker Street flat is up for rent, now.


End file.
